


Where I Cannot Follow

by brunetta6



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:40:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29394912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brunetta6/pseuds/brunetta6
Summary: A collab with Diddledoop, for Diddledoop, of her OC and a character backstory interaction with the terrible, no-good, nasty Trent Ikithon.
Kudos: 3





	Where I Cannot Follow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [diddledoop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/diddledoop/gifts).



> -beware: here there be a genital mutilation and torture scene (aka a testicle stabbing)-

It had been eight days. Eight days since Erika had realized Kars was gone.

She had thought he was joking about seeking out the dreams. ‘Seeking out’ had never been an option, not for them. Not in Rexxentrum, not so close to Ambition’s Call, and not when they could be so suddenly called for a mission... but evidently, a month of downtime was more than enough for Kars to forget that.

Now, he was gone. And she had orders for a two-person mission.

She held the letter in her hands, which had begun to shake. The words didn’t matter, the specifics falling away when laid next to the simple fact that it was clearly meant for the pair of them. All at once the vague semblance of misplaced hope that the time her brother was missing would go unnoticed until he returned was dashed against the rocks. That is,  _ if _ he even returned. She blinked quickly against the panicked tears that rose as she assessed her options. Of course she had none. 

Attempting the mission alone wasn’t viable; she barely knew any offensive spells, her focus pooled into mental extraction so as to suit her role. The idea of lying barely had the opportunity to surface before the rising bile in her throat stamped it back down. There was no way. She knew those eyes would pick her apart before she even opened her mouth, would read the truth out of her as easily as with any spell. 

Mouse chittered from her pocket, sensing her distress. She set the letter on the table, reaching down to take the small rat in her hands and cuddle her to her face. Desperately trying to absorb any amount of comfort to chase away the nightmare she could see crawling over the horizon. She put Mouse back in her pocket after too brief a moment, pulling her hair out of its ribbon. Buttoned her shirt collar higher, put on a light jacket. Anything, anything to hide from the scrutiny she knew she would face. She retrieved the letter and took one last look at their shared modest bedroom before following the sinking in her gut to where she knew her Master was waiting.

The halls of Ambition’s Call were constructed of dark wood, dangerously delicate and warmed by the water pipes that ran through them. The regal paintings that she passed — of past Dwendalian kings — seemed to watch her with judging eyes as she made her way to that familiar door.

She knocked shakily.

The silence that greeted her was only a few seconds long. It felt paralyzingly infinite.

Then, the door swung open without a word, bidding Erika entry to her Master’s office.

The office of the Archmage of Civic Influence was a vast, impressive space, even for those who had seen the inside of Castle Ungebroch. Taking up the entire top eighth of the tower, it was constructed all of skillfully worked rippling, dark Zemnian wood, with bookshelves stretching up nearly a hundred feet all the way to a pyramid roof of stained glass. The early morning light flooded in through jewel-toned glass, wrought with iron and enchanted against bad weather. It depicted the crowned visage of eight cloaked mages, warring over a scarlet, broken cityscape; the Eve of Crimson Midnight, nearly two hundred years before, the horrific historical event that gave shape to the founding of the Cerberus Assembly… all lit in glass, sunlight, and sparse, fluttering snowflakes. Enchanted orbs of light illuminated the space. A trio of massive desks took up the center of the room, each stacked with books and important-looking papers, framing a massive iron brazier that burned with warming magical flame. All of it overlooked a single, arched pane window with diamond gridding, large enough for eight men to stand abreast and look out at once. It faced northward… with the best skybound view of Castle Ungebroch that existed in Rexxentrum. 

Trent sat at his leftmost desk, long quill scratching on paper. He said nothing.

Erika stepped into the room, posture as perfect as she could manage as she fought her nerves to keep her breathing steady. She gripped her hands tightly behind her back, making sure she had control of her voice before quietly saying, “Good afternoon, Master Ikithon.” She bit the inside of her cheek in anticipation.

“Do you need something?” Trent murmured steadily. He still did not look up. “I assume that there were no problems with your orders.”

Iron filled Erika’s mouth as she bit down a little too hard. She swallowed, eyes flitting to the side briefly before she forced them back into place. “Actually, that is what I came here to speak with you about, Master. I think that the assignment may benefit from being... postponed. Briefly.” Her mind was a raging sea, frantically churning through the possibilities of each word in an effort to avoid lying while somehow shrouding her brother from Trent’s inevitable ire.

Trent’s quill stopped scratching.

He did not look up. “And why is that,  _ Kind _ ?”

There it was. A cold chill went down her spine, followed by the creeping warmth of red starting to color her cheeks and neck. Clearly this was already a mistake, but she could do nothing but go down with the ship. “Karsten is unavailable at the moment, and I don’t feel confident in my ability to complete the mission to your standards without him.” She slowly let out the breath she was holding, shallow as it was.

There was a deathly moment of quiet. Her eyes were locked on his long, liver-spotted fingers — the tips faintly yellowed with jaundice — but still unnervingly steady despite his years.

Those fingers slowly moved, placing his quill back in the inkwell. They interlaced with one another, and Trent Ikithon turned to face her. His dark eyes zeroed in on her face in the gut-twisting silence.

“Where is your brother, Erika?”

She froze. While the passive conversation had been chilling, there was no question that his undiluted gaze was  _ much _ worse. Her hands dropped to her sides, her right twitching slightly as she fought the urge to thrust it into her skirt pocket for Mouse. She licked her lips. “I don’t. I don’t know, sir.”

“You do not know or you have not  _ looked _ ?”

It was almost painful to maintain eye contact. She was fighting a losing battle between the safety of the floor and the prying glint of his eyes. “I’ve looked all over the city, sir. I don’t believe he is anywhere in the capitol.”

Trent pulled in a slow, impatient breath, and let it go. He turned back to his desk. “Fetch me his hairbrush.”

“Yes, sir!” she replied quickly, immediately walking swiftly out of the office. The moment she returned to their shared bedroom she all but collapsed, her face burning hot with shame. How stupid she had been to think that there was a chance that he would let this go, how careless to have lost track of her brother for so long. She reached for the drawer with shaking hands, retrieving the brush. The only relief she found was in the knowledge that this would soon all be over. Her Master would find Kars, they would retrieve him, and everything would be just as it was before all of this folly. She walked back to the office a little steadier, scolding herself for her childishness and resolved to face the consequences of her poor decisions.

When she entered his office again, her master had pulled out his scrying eye; a massive, polished orb of obsidian wrapped in curves of golden filigree. A small fortune in magical focus under his hand.

He took the brush from her wordlessly and set it down, disentangling a small knot of dark hair from the bristles. Clasping it in his hand, he began to chant softly to himself, his rasping voice deep and horribly reassuring, too familiar and too certain. That voice had whispered her rare, precious bedtime stories. That voice had commanded her brother to slit the throats of small animals, then men. Then women. Then children. That voice had mentored her, guided her through her first years of spellcraft. That voice had told her ‘Well done.’ ‘Not enough.’ ‘Stay here.’ ’Go to your room.’

It was the voice that she knew the surest. It was the voice that sent ice through her veins.

Ten minutes later, Trent’s eyes glazed over, milky white.

He sat motionless, gazing into nothing. After a moment, his brows slowly met, impatient and  _ angry _ .

All of the courage that she had built on the way over seemed to melt into nothing around her. She was consumed with worry, paranoia, uncertainty.  _ What had he seen that would cause him to break his careful demeanor? _ Where was Kars, where was her  _ brother _ , was he alright, was he hurt- she knew better than to ask. And so she waited, waited for Master to come back to her and reassure her that everything was under control.

Trent blinked his scrying eyes away. He exhaled sharply, put the enormous gem away, and turned to Erika. “Why is your brother in Nogvurot?”

She blinked. The color drained away from her face as she considered the implications. They both knew there had been an increase in reported Kryn activity in the area. Her mouth suddenly felt unbelievably dry. There was no way Kars was... allied with- no. There had to be some logical explanation, and she would hear it when he returned. She managed to stammer out, “I- I’m not sure, he didn’t tell me anything about where he was going or, or how long he would be gone-“

“Guess.”

For a moment it was as if the world had split apart in front of her. She could see the two paths clearly; disrespect her master by attempting to bend around the truth and protect her brother, or obey him as she was taught and betray her blood. She weighed them heavily. Their Master already knew where Kars was. He knew surely what was happening there, very likely far more than she did. She thought back to how unsettled Kars had been before he left, the look on his face like he had seen a ghost. Perhaps Master Ikithon could help him, could guide him back to the light after this transgression. She said a silent prayer, an apology to her dearest and oldest companion, and let it go. 

“He was having.... dreams. Something.. strange. Not like a normal dream. He may have been looking for answers, of a sort.”

The tension in her master’s shoulders eased, ever so slightly. He watched her, cold and regal as any king.

“Speak clearly,  _ Kind _ . Describe these dreams. Tell me what he told you.”

Erika breathed out a soft sigh. Finally, a good decision. “He didn’t tell me much, he was too..” she paused, considering her brother’s pride. “..unnerved. He was not himself in the dreams, he felt. There were places he had never been, people he hadn’t met. He just seemed  _ confused _ …” She hesitated, before pleading, “Please, Master, if he is somehow being led astray, is there- is there anything to be done?”

“Do you have any conniving way of contacting him that I am not aware of?” Trent snapped.

Her heart seized. Her eyes prickled slightly but she quickly blinked and replied “No, sir. Not that you aren’t aware of.”

Trent eyed her darkly... then sighed heavily and rubbed his forehead. “I can hardly believe that these  _ dreams _ were enough to cause him to abandon you.”

She reeled back as if he had struck her. He had pulled at the loose thread that held her together, and she could feel the dark tide of desperation threatening to pull her under. He couldn’t have meant it, surely didn’t  _ mean _ to remind her of the question that hid behind her every thought. She clasped her hands in front of her, silently asking Mouse to nuzzle at the back of her wrist. 

“Yes.. sir,” she muttered thickly, trying to swallow down the lump in her throat.

Trent glanced at her silently... then sighed and beckoned her. “Come here. Let me look at you.”

Erika stepped forward slowly, telling Mouse to burrow down further into her pocket as she did so.

Her master reached out with his long, yellowed fingers, taking her hands. The callused pads of his thumbs rasped against the sensitive insides of her palms, dark eyes searching her face. "You look thin," he murmured softly, his voice like tarnished silver. "Go eat. Have a meal. You were good to come to me with this. I do wish you had approached with honesty,  _ Kind _ . You never have anything to fear from me when you are  _ honest _ ."

She couldn’t help but melt into the touch a bit. She sniffed lightly, smiling ruefully at his comment on her appearance. Of course she hadn’t been eating well since Kars had been missing. Again she thought how childish she had been. She would have been angry with herself as well had she been in his position,  _ was _ angry with herself. She bowed her head a bit, “Thank you Master, I’ll do that.” Then, sheepishly, “I’m sorry that I was too preoccupied with my own worries to speak plainly. I’ll be more mindful in the future.” She gave a little bob, and moved to leave the office.

Trent released her, picking his quill back up. "Just because your brother is a deserter does not mean that the Empire’s work stops.” he murmured as he returned to his work. “Bring that man in. Use whatever pretenses you must. I will show you properly how to finish the job."

She froze mid-step before self-preservation kicked in and she recovered. “Of course, sir,” she choked out before resuming her exit, closing the door softly behind her. 

She could hear her heart thrumming in her ears, loud as a hurricane roaring past her. The word  _ deserter _ seemed plastered against her eyelids. She reached desperately to her hip for her spell book, praying against all odds that there would be something she had learned that she had forgotten that would make any part of this easier. Halfway through her search, she realized that he likely would want her at full capacity when she returned with the merchant for.... the rest of it. 

So. She could do this. She was young, her face was still soft and doe-like, she could convince the man that she was no threat easily. And truly, she wasn’t, she thought bitterly. It would be a challenge, but one she was prepared to surmount. The after would come after.

The man in question -- an iron merchant named Stephan Orrindrud, in his early thirties with a doughy face -- seemed unremarkable. If she had entered his residence with her brother, certainly it would have been a simple matter of strapping him to a chair and searching his office while Kars squeezed him for information. Kars had stained more than a few rugs with their owner's own blood, but Erika...

Erika had little experience with torture. She didn't have the stomach of a foltermeister. Now, she was wishing she did. She wished that she paid closer attention in anatomy classes, and to which knives were used for what purpose. She found herself slipping slightly, encouraging the man named Stephan that she was a messenger from the local guildmaster.

By the time that he realized they were approaching the Candles, he stuttered... then paused.

"This is--"

His eyes flickered to hers in a panic. "No..." he whispered, and turned to flee.

The door of Ambition's Call opened. A flick of something, a whisper and a drop of oil, whizzed past Erika's face and splattered harmlessly against the back of the man's neck. Before she could even react to his attempt to run, Stephan faltered... then stopped. He stood there, puzzled. Dripping with cold sweat and uncertain, like a man who was about to make a purchase and wondered if he had left his coin purse at home.

Erika turned, her heart lodging in her throat, to see her master step from the doorway.

Trent was dressed in black. Gone were his normal robes, replaced by an outfit designed for cruelty. It was old, made of thick, sturdy material... the kind of cloth that wouldn't break under desperate fingernails, and wouldn't stain if spattered by blood. His boots were solid. Old stains were nearly indecipherable against the black material.

Trent beckoned the man inside. "Don't just stand there," he murmured. "Come in."

Stephan wavered, blinking like a stupid puppy. Then he smiled, eyes creasing around unnaturally stretched pupils, and walked in past the archmage. "You have a lovely home."

"Thank you. Just stand in the middle of the floor, please. Erika. You are letting the cold in."

Erika swallowed. She had seen her master cast Suggestion before. But the ease with which the target surrendered his will -- switching from terrified victim to unwitting house guest in less than six seconds -- had always been terrifying. Brutally efficient.

Just like her father.

"Erika."

She hurried in past him, her head bowed. Trent closed the door behind her and went to join their guest in the center of the room. They stood together as the floor did not ascend to the upper floors... but instead descended at his will.

The floor sunk ever further down, a gentle half-darkness swallowing them as the glittering chandelier faded to a softer red light, one meant to preserve night vision. The rich wooden walls stopped abruptly, changing into the deep, polished, grey bedrock of the hills that Rexxentrum was built upon. The scent of blood and urine grew stronger as they passed level after level of doors. These were the rooms of political prisoners. Traitors, or family members of those who had dared to cross the Empire. Some of the rooms -- the ones more shallowly buried -- were designed to be comfortable, with heating and beds and bookshelves. The deeper ones, however, were nothing but stone and shackles.

Erika resisted the urge to shift her weight or cover her nose, wanting to get the whole ordeal over with as quickly as possible. She snuck a quick glance to her Master, taking in his utterly bored expression. She was both envious and revolted of the cool detachment with which he conducted this business. The next moments were spent desperately trying to match that mindset, forcing away any traces of empathy from her mind.

Trent opened a dark iron door with a wave of his hand. He entered a small, circular room with two chairs — bloodstained leather straps built into the armrests — bolted to the stone floor. There was a single rolling table next to one.

Trent elegantly brushed open a small leather roll of delicate tools, sighing over the selection of knives, nails, and tiny steel hooks. “Sit, please. Erika, show him the ropes. Hand and foot, if you would.”  _ Secure the straps. _

Stephan walked in and sat innocently in the chair, his magically ragged pupils leaving only a ring of color around them. He was blinking a little too hard to be natural, a nosebleed starting to bead over his lip as he looked around. It reminded her of a rabbit caught in a snare. 

She stepped forward like she was moving underwater, hands steady but moving slowly with the force of her focus. She had done well enough getting him here, if she could just compose herself long enough to make it through this then maybe her Master would contact Kars- would ask him if _when_ he planned on returning. 

She pulled the straps tight across the man's ankles and wrists just as she was taught, ensuring that there was no way they could be slipped. She resisted the urge to wipe the blood off of his face, knowing it would be lost in the sea of it to come. The empty chair behind her seemed to taunt her. 

She stepped back when she was finished, hands clasped in front of her and awaiting instruction.

Trent beckoned her to the knives. “Come here.”

She swallowed, pale as a ghost as she joined him. Trent gestured to the array of delicate, deadly looking tools. “Select one for me.”

She examined them each carefully, mind racing through the possibilities. She knew none of them were pleasant, glancing back to the incapacitated man in the chair, but she definitely knew some were worse. She settled on a small knife almost like a scalpel, one she knew was sharp enough to slice paper. Better that way. Less ragged hurt. She picked up the knife, turning it in her hands so that the handle was facing her Master as she presented it to him.

Trent accepted it. He flicked it around and showed her the point. “Do you know what this one is called?”

“No, sir.”

“This is a boning knife. Do you know why this one is special?”

Erika shook her head quietly.

Trent pressed the tip of the blade down on the wooden table, and let the weight of his arm rest on it. The knife  _ bent _ , but did not break. “It is flexible; good for soft organs.”

Her stomach turned sickly. She nodded slowly, turning to look at the man in the chair. No. Not just a man. A person, a person who must have friends, whose name was something as mundane as  _ Stephan _ . Her mouth filled with saliva as the urge to vomit nearly overtook her.

With a loose gesture, Trent dropped his Suggestion.

Immediately, Erika saw the raw panic set in. Stephan jerked his arms, eyes wide and dripping with cold sweat. “Wh— No. I—“

His panicked gaze flickered up to Erika. “You—?!”

He snarled at her and yanked at the bonds. “You BITCH!” he yelled. “You LIED TO—!”

Trent pressed the delicate tip of his knife to the man’s throat. Stephan stiffened, swallowing in terror. The bounce of his pulse made the blade bob in his gentle, expert grip.

“I do not expect you to understand the rare event that you are about to participate in,” Trent murmured softly, dangerously. “I have not taken up the knives of a foltermeister in  _ decades _ .”

“You—“ Trent murmured, his voice cold and calm as he settled down in front of him, “—are going to answer every one of my questions. And you will not lie. If you say nothing or attempt to divert my attention to another matter, I will hurt you. I am god in this room,  _ Stephan _ . What I say becomes real.”

The man's eyes widened, and he let out an incredulous laugh. 

"You’re a psychopath.” He laughed deliriously, the noise a sharp, cutting sound. "I'm an  _ assassin _ . A kidnapper. I'm a member of the Clasp. You think you can get to me that easy?! No wonder you have such a pathetic, flighty little thing like that girl serving you."

He spat, a glob of phlegm landing on Ikithon’s cheek.

Erika’s eyes blew out wide, but she didn’t dare to move. She couldn’t believe it. From his reaction outside the tower, she had thought surely that this Stephan had some pretense for what and who he was about to be intimately involved with. Clearly now he was either vastly uninformed, completely stupid, or desperate beyond belief. Almost certainly a combination of the three. She gripped her clasped hands tighter, her nails digging into her skin.

Trent reached up slowly, wiped the spittle off his cheek, and delicately picked up a straight knife.

He placed the tip into the fork of Stephan’s legs, his hand light, searching silently for the soft organs hidden beneath the fabric.

The man froze, and then began babbling. "W-Wait! L-let’s not go crazy!! You know how it is right? We're both men of the trade and you're— Hah! You’re clearly very experienced! Clearly you're the one in control here! You're the one using the girl, right! Yes! Th-that’s very clever of you!” His voice was progressively pitching higher and higher with panic.

Trent sighed in resignation and shifted forward, unbuttoning the man’s trousers and pulling them down to see his target better; a soft, discolored, blotchy looking thing resting against the chair’s stained wood. He picked his knife back up and gently balanced the razor-sharp tip on top of Stephan’s left testicle.

The man began hyperventilating. "You want names?! I’ll give you names! I swear! There’s Vessar! Vessar is a half-breed! Half elf! He’s set up in Port Damali, shipping the iron to Tal’dorei right now!! The middle man! The middle man is—!”

Trent looked at him flatly, brows raised, unimpressed by the Clasp agent’s pleading.

"Don't do this don't you dare do this—! Y-you have no idea what you're getting into! You could still let me go! You're making a hundred enemies by doing this! I don't know what that bastard half-breed traitor told you but I'm sure w-we can clear this up!!"

Trent looked him in the eyes silently.

Without a word, he pushed the knife through his testicle and left it there.

The man screamed.

Erika bit down  _ hard _ on the inside of her cheek to keep from doing the same. Her vision spun lopsidedly at the sound, her already strung out nerves threatening to bring all of this to an abrupt close. She tried to look like she was paying attention to the process rather than the horror of it all.

“Something to remember,” Trent murmured lightly, glancing back at Erika who was straining to hear him over the screams. “As the norm, women value their looks. Men value their virility. When you are dealing with a woman, threaten her face or her fingers. When you’re dealing with a man, threaten his genitals. Of course...”

He turned his eyes steadily back to the wailing, bleeding man. “Your brother, I imagine, will be less talkative than this one...”

Gravity seemed to swell around her, and the last thing she heard over the broken sobs was the solid crack of her head hitting stone.

Trent turned back, eyes dangerously bright. “Oh, by the Lawmaker,” he hissed in frustration.

He stood, yanking the knife free, and grabbed his daughter, dragging her out of the room.

The door slammed behind him.

Erika rolled her head and winced at the noise and the movement. The site of the impact pounded fiercely, and all too quickly she realized that barely any time had passed. Her breaths came quicker and quicker, shallow and not nearly enough, fear and pain and rage and grief mingling together so that they were practically choking her. She could feel tears streaming down her face as her eyes circled wildly for any exit, any escape before-

Trent dropped her on the ground, reached back, and slapped her full across the face. The impact left her skull ringing.

“What in the  _ name of the gods _ were you thinking?” Trent hissed. “You do not  _ faint _ in the middle of an interrogation!”

She stared wide-eyed into nothing, shock briefly stunting her panic, then turned to look back at her Master, mouth slightly ajar. Too much. She blearily turned her eyes down the hall instead as she murmured “I’m..... sorry...”

“You are not sorry. You are  _ weak _ !”

He slapped her again. “SAY IT!”

She couldn’t help but cry out at the second impact, hand flying up to her face instinctively. “I- I’m- please, it was a mistake! It won’t happen again-“

“Then prove it.”

Trent tucked the hilt of the bloody knife into her hand. “Go in there and finish the  _ fucking job _ .”

Erika closed her hand weakly around the knife, looking back at him dumbly. She made no move to stand.

Trent swore and pressed his thumb against her forehead. Charm Person weighed down on her like a heavy blanket, warm and reassuring, pressing her terror to the back of her mind.

“Stand. Up.”

She blinked. Every muscle in her body, previously pulled taut, relaxed back into place. She stood easily, smiling benignly back at her father.

“Go in there,” Trent murmured, deadly calm. “And slit that man’s throat.”

Erika nodded, her fingers trembling and her face slack... and walked inside.

-

Six days.

Six days of snake oil. Rouge. Charm Person. Suggestion. Dominate Person, when she resisted.

Five until she stopped resisting. Five evenings spent in the bathroom, shivering and nursing self-inflicted burns. Her father had said that he needed to see penance for her  _ disobedience _ . It was the best way to show her regret; on her skin. The scars would stay with her for the rest of her life. Four uneven marks, the fifth laid horrifically across the others, all inflicted by a long, red-hot poker. By the sixth day, Erika had learned not to question or disobey his commands. Even if it made her sick later, she arrested her emotions and thrust them down. They were her emotions. She would command them. She had to, if she would ever see an end to this. 

She rose from her bed, having long since given up on hope for sleep. The red seeping through the bandages on her upper left arm no longer made her stomach churn, despite the constant throbbing heat of infection still present amongst the pain. She lost time staring down at them. 

Imagining the consequences if she failed to keep them clean, if she lost the arm. 

She reached for the basin and went to fetch water.

The sound of a pebble bouncing off the window made her look up. Erika went still. Staring. Waiting.

Another small rock pinged off the glass.  Her heart jumped into her throat, each step she took towards the window like wading through molasses. She got only close enough to peak outside, not wanting to reveal too much of herself.

There, standing in the shadow of the tower, was a familiar figure. Her brother, Kars, pale faced and dripping in cold sweat even on a warm day.

She blinked once, twice. Reached into her mind, digging, searching for anything that said this wasn’t the truth, wasn't real. She found nothing, and he was still there when she looked back. 

The basin slipped from her fingers, a particularly distracting bolt of pain running through her arm.

Deserter.

Brother. 

Heart. 

_ Kars _ .

Her eyes unfocused, unseeing, she turned for the door. Walked numbly through the halls until she came to the office. Knocked lightly. Once again, the door swung open. She walked in with that same fear like a stone when it fell; plummeting into the unknown darkness of her father’s eyes.

“Vater, mein Bruder ist zurückgekehrt.”

_ Father, my brother has returned. _

Ikithon remained where he was. His quill stopped scratching.

“Erhalten Sie eine Erklärung mit allen erforderlichen Mitteln.” 

_ Acquire an explanation by any means necessary. _

Erika nodded emptily, bowed out, and went to fetch the knives. The door closed behind her with an echoing  _ slam. _


End file.
